Part 1
Produced by Al Haines
HOLDEN WITH THE CORDS
BY W. M. L. JAY
Author of "Shiloh," etc.
"Sin will pluck on sin." _King Richard III._
NEW YORK E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY, 713 BROADWAY 1874
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1874, by E. P. DUTTON & CO., In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
PREFACE.
In sending forth another book belonging to the class known as religious novels, the author is moved to say a word to the critics who received a former one with so pleasant a mixture of praise and deprecation. As one of them frankly explained, "they like a pill none the better for being sugar-coated." It is not necessary to remind them that there may be younger (and possibly older) people who do. It is more to the point to state that persons to whom religion is a pill--a bitter, nauseous compound, to be bolted in sickness, and kept out of sight in health--are not the persons for whom the author writes.
There is another class of objectors. They talk solemnly of Art and its canons; they make a religion of it, having little other. One of these remarks, that "a tract in the hands of the Venus di Medici would be an impertinence." I quite agree with him. But why need he ignore the fact that the Venus is also the outcome of a religion? To the ancient sculptor, it was a goddess, not a woman, that grew under his hands; it was Devotion, working together with Genius, that produced the two or three statues which the world agrees to admire. So the few great poems of the world are religious poems. Why, then, should not the great novel of the world be a religious novel? Some day, be sure, a genius sweeter than Hawthorne's, more genial than Dickens', and subtler than Thackeray's, will arise to give it to us. Let me humbly help to prepare the way for him! Meanwhile, be it also understood that the persons to whom Art is a sufficing end, instead of a noble means, are not the persons for whom I write.
I do write for the "gentle reader" who enjoys religion in novels, as elsewhere. Be thus much said for his liking, even from the art side. There are two classes of novels--the descriptive and the analytical; one pictures real life, the other passions and motives. Religion has its rightful place in both, because it is an important part of real life, and controls both passions and motives. Finally (for the subject is much too wide for a preface), the modern novel being so potent a power,--for evil on the one hand, for social and civil reform on the other,--it is fair to suppose that it may do good service for religion.
In conclusion, I have to make two acknowledgments. The first to an unknown coadjutor, a hand that is doubtless mouldering into dust. Some years ago, a yellow, time-worn manuscript, purporting to be a veritable family history, fell into my hands. I am indebted to it for the main outline of my story. The second is to MISS FREEBORNE,--the only sculptor of our day, so far as I know, who has consecrated her genius to Christian Art. From her studio I have quietly abstracted the sculpture which lends its white grace to these pages. I should also have seized upon the slender figure of her St. Agnes, and the bowed head of her Martyr, had they been available to my purpose.
NEW YORK, July, 1874.
CONTENTS.
INTRODUCTION
PART FIRST.
A WAY THAT SEEMETH RIGHT.
I.--Proverbs and the Interpretation II.--Studying to Answer III.--Pattern of Old Fidelity IV.--A Goodly Heritage V.--Waste Places VI.--The Day of Temptation VII.--A Bitter Draught VIII.--As a Dream when one Awaketh IX.--The Blot Cleaves
PART SECOND.
THE FRUIT OF THE WAY.
I.--Through a Mist II.--Strengthened out of Zion III.--Seeing, but Understanding Not IV.--Patient Waiting V.--Under the Oaks VI.--Of Clay VII.--Hidden Riches VIII.--The Wind Changes IX.--The First Links of a Chain X.--Feeling His Way XI.--Sleepless Nights Appointed XII.--A Consultation XIII.--Dinner-Table Talk
PART THIRD.
THE IN-GATHERING.
I.--Unfoldings II.--The Foundations Fail III.--Building Anew IV.--A Sermon V.--Partings VI.--With a Double Heart VII.--Overburdened VIII.--A Business Letter IX.--Smoother Than Butter X.--A Wicked Device XI.--A Clue XII.--Too Late XIII.--Escaped XIV.--The Way Stopped
PART FOURTH.
A NEW FIELD.
I.--Alive in Famine II.--New Acquaintances III.--Farview IV.--A Word in Due Season V.--Intercepted VI.--An Aimless Stroll VII.--Ordered Steps VIII.--Though He Slay IX.--Mistakes X.--Like a Thief in the Night XI.--After Many Days
PART FIFTH.
A BETTER HARVEST.
I.--A Cloud for a Covering II.--Swift Feet III.--Fatality or Temptation IV.--Blind V.--More Mystery VI.--A Clue VII.--The Set Time VIII.--Gift and Giver IX.--Faithful unto Death
HOLDEN WITH THE CORDS.
INTRODUCTION.
Very beautiful was the long vista of the elm-arched street. So irresistibly did it woo the eye to linger among its gray columns and green arches, or wander adown its fair, temple-like perspective to the hazy vanishing point, that the wayfarer might easily forget to observe what sort of dwellings were ranged along its sides. Nor did they seek to force themselves upon his notice. They were all plain, substantial structures, with no obtrusive marks of ostentation or of meanness about them; and they all stood a little back from the street, leaving room for a trim grass-plot, or a thicket of flowering shrubs, between them and the passer-by. They would impress him, collectively, as genuine, well-to-do homes, free alike from the struggles of poverty and the temptations of wealth, without troubling him to recognize them individually, or diverting his gaze from the over-arching elms that were so much better worth his looking at.
Such, at least, would be the fact, until he came to a certain corner; where a large square structure of stuccoed brick, coming boldly forward to the pavement, and planting its heavy steps thereon, would be sure to arrest his glance, and, perhaps, faintly stir his curiosity. It was too large for a private building, and too unpretending for a public one,--what was it? If he had put the inquiry into audible words, he would have been told that it was the Medical College. And if his interlocutor had chanced to be a white-haired, genial-faced old man, long ago flung aside from the stream of active life, and, consequently, with time on his hands for a little chat with a stranger,--he would, doubtless, have woven into his answer the popular witticism;--
"Everything here, sir, is arranged just as it should be. The divinity school is on the road to the poorhouse; the law-school adjoins the jail; and the medical college--this building before you, sir--is hard by the cemetery;--you can see the monuments rising above the hedge yonder."
But the young man now coming up the street, through the pleasant play of sunshine and shadow beneath the elms, would neither have asked the question, nor smiled at the answer. He knew the stuccoed building well, as a three years' occupant thereof must needs do; and he had heard and repeated the witticism too many times to leave it the faintest sparkle. It was doubtful, too, whether he gave a thought to the loveliness of the elm-arched vista that stretched before him,--partly by reason of his familiarity therewith, partly on account of a preoccupied mind, and still more, perhaps, because his bright, brisk, energetic temperament was not of the sort which is quickest to feel subtile charm, and recognize the delicate outline, of the spirit of beauty. He came on rapidly, with an elastic step and a cheery whistle, and, as he neared the college, he cast a quick glance at one of its upper windows. What he saw there would have been a pretty enough sight to most people,--merely a tiny brown bird hopping to and fro on the window-sill, and turning its small head briskly from side to side in its search for infinitesimal crumbs,--but it brought a shadow to his broad, frank brow.
"Not yet up," he muttered, "or that wren wouldn't be trotting up and down there so complacently! To be sure, he may have gone out, but it isn't likely."
Neither for the look nor the thought did he pause, but strode straight up two flights of stairs, his firm tread resounding loudly through the empty, uncarpeted halls, and knocked at the door of a front room. There was no response. He knocked again, with a somewhat impatient hand, tried the door and found it locked, waited a moment, beat a third emphatic rat-tat-too upon the panel, without eliciting other reply than a faint and dreary echo from the attic above; and, finally, turned on his heel, and walked down-stairs. At the head of the second flight, a thought seemed to strike him; after a moment of hesitation, he turned and knocked at a door close at hand. Scarcely waiting for the prompt "Come in!" he opened it, with the question,--"Have you seen Arling this morning?"
The occupant of the room was a broad-shouldered young man, sitting at a table covered with books and papers, and deeply absorbed in study. He only half turned his head, showing a regular, clear-cut profile, as he answered,--
"No. I left him so late last night that I overslept this morning, and have thought of nothing but making up lost time. And really, Trubie, a man might be excused for forgetting his best friend--if he had one--in examination week. But, is Arling any worse?"
"That's what I should like to know, Roath," returned Trubie, planting himself a little more firmly on the threshold, but taking no notice of the chair that the other had carelessly pushed toward him. "At any rate, he's out."
Roath started, and turned completely round, giving a view of a square-featured, somewhat moody, but still handsome, face. "Out!" he repeated, looking both amazed and startled.
"So it would seem. The door is locked, and I rapped and rattled loud enough to wake the dead."
"Oh," said Roath, with a prolonged falling inflection. And after a moment's consideration, he turned back to his books, as if there were no more to be said.
Trubie lingered. Not, evidently, from any special liking for Roath's society, but because he was undecided what to do next. "I don't understand it, Roath," he said slowly. "You know Arling was to have kept his room to-day, by way of gaining strength, and guarding against a relapse. And we were to have gone over 'Barnes' together this morning, so as to be all primed for Professor Beers to-morrow. What _can_ he have done with himself?"
"Perhaps," said Roath, absently, with his eyes on his book, "some of the others may have seen him."
Trubie took the hint--if such it was meant to be--and withdrew. He spent the next half hour in knocking at sundry doors, and repeating, with slight variation, the questions and remarks wherewith he had favored Roath. No one had seen Arling; no one knew anything about him. All seemed surprised to learn that he had gone out; but all were laboriously cramming for the examinations in progress, and the surprise made but a faint and transient ripple on the surface of their troubled minds. Trubie's persistency impressed them much more strongly; they wondered that he had leisure to bestow upon any anxiety not connected with those dreaded examinations, any fear save that of failing to secure the right to sign himself, "Frank Trubie, M.D."
Nor--to represent him fairly--was the young man himself wholly insensible of his absurdity. "Well!" said he, at last, "I can't afford to spend my morning in this way. I must go back to my room, and set to work. When Arling comes in, tell him I've been here." And away he went through the dancing elm-shadows, more quickly than he had come.
Two hours passed. Then Roath closed his books, gathered up his papers, and took his way to the examination room, amid the groups of assembling students. Many eyes followed him, some with admiration, some with envy,--few or none, it was plain to see, with affection.
"No question but that he'll pass!" said one. "He's all brain,--I'd be content with half as much."
"And his memory!" exclaimed another. "It appears to be constructed on the principle of a rat-trap; ingress is easy, egress--not provided for!"
"No one can keep step with him but Arling," remarked a third; "if _he_ gets well enough, there will be a close race between them."
"I bet on Arling," said a fourth,--a somewhat slender young man, with an easy, almost careless air, but a thoughtful face,--Mark Tracey by name.
"Eh! why?" asked the first speaker.
"Because, as you said just now, Roath is all brain. Whereas Arling, while he does not want for brain, has also a heart and a conscience. And in medicine, as in everything else, that wonderful trio are too strong for brain alone."
"Moralizing, as usual," returned the other with a light laugh.
"Not at all. It is plain common-sense. The history of the world shows it. Perhaps there is no better type of pure intellect than Satan. And Michael the archangel does very well for a representative of love, duty, and intellect, combined. You remember which beat?"
"It is not possible, Tracey, that you believe that fable!"
"Grant that it is a fable," replied Tracey, lifting his eyebrows;--"it nevertheless stands for the concrete wisdom of the ages which preceded it."
The last words were spoken on the threshold of the examination room, and, of necessity, closed the discussion.
Roath's examination, on this day, did not disappoint the general expectation. Although somewhat paler than ordinary, he was thoroughly self-possessed; his answers were clear and to the point; not once did his memory play him false; scarcely once did he hesitate for a word. He gave evidence not only of close study, but of careful analysis, and profound, sagacious thought. But he looked worn when it was over, as if the mental strain had been severe; and seemed scarcely to hear the comments and congratulations showered upon him.
Into the midst of these burst Trubie, with the old question, "Have you seen anything of Arling?" and hardly waiting for the general "No" which answered it, upstairs he rushed, three steps at a time, to the room of his friend. The stream of talk had scarcely resumed its flow, ere he was back again, with a hurried step, and a perturbed face.
"It's odd about Arling," he began, abruptly. "I can't get any answer, and there's nothing stirring in the room. But I looked into the keyhole, and the key is certainly inside."
Some few of the students, startled by his words, and the deep gravity of his look, gathered around him to discuss the matter, when a stout, gray-haired professor came out from the examination room.
"Good day, Mr. Trubie," said he, as he passed the group. "I hope your patient is doing well."
"I--I don't know, sir," faltered Trubie; "I have not seen him since yesterday, at dusk. And he is unaccountably missing this morning;--at least, I thought he must be out when I went to his room, at eight o'clock, and couldn't get in. But I have just been up again, and--and the door is certainly locked on the inside."
Being already in possession of the main facts of the case,--namely, that Alec Arling, one of the class of medical students now undergoing examination for their degree, had been suffering for some days from severe and increasing intestinal trouble, and had been advised by the faculty to keep his room for a day or two, under the care of his friend, Frank Trubie;--the professor now, by means of a few rapid questions, elicited the additional facts, that Trubie had been suddenly called away, on the previous evening, by family affliction, to his home in a near suburb, and had spent the night there, and that Edmund Roath, who had volunteered to keep a little watch over the sick-room during his absence, had remained with Arling till past midnight, engaged in comparing notes of clinical lectures, and in psychological talk (with which matters Arling _would_ busy himself, in spite of remonstrance), and had then left him, recommending him to go to sleep at once, and had heard the door duly locked on his exit. Roath further stated that, in consequence of this protracted sitting, and previous hard work, he had slept late this morning; and, taking it for granted that Trubie, according to promise, was already back at his post, he had seated himself at his books, immediately upon rising. Very shortly after, Trubie had appeared, and informed him that Arling had gone out, whereat he had been considerably surprised,--not that the young man was unable to leave his room, but because it was inexpedient to do so. Nevertheless, he frankly acknowledged that his mind was too much preoccupied to give more than a passing thought to the matter, especially as he knew well that any remissness on his part was sure to be amply atoned for by Trubie,--he and Arling being, as everybody knew, the Damon and Pythias of the class.
The professor was a man of few words, quick conclusions, and prompt action. "There is but one way of getting at the bottom of the matter," said he, at the end of this rapid statement. "Let somebody bring a crowbar, and pry open the door."
Scarce sooner said than done. The door yielded easily to the rude implement, in Trubie's impetuous hands, and was followed by a rush of the assembled students toward the opening,--though, even in this moment of eager curiosity, the instinct of subordination allowed the professor to in first. He went straight to the bed, where was seen a human form, lying on its side, in an easy attitude of slumber. He bent for a moment above this form, while a sudden silence fell upon the startled spectators,--he touched the brow, lifted the hand, and then, turning slowly round, said, in deep, serious tones;--
"He is dead."
Trubie let fall the crowbar, darted forward, and caught the hand of his dead friend, with a kind of indignant incredulity. But the icy touch, the marble pallor, the lifeless weight, brought instant conviction. He stood as if stunned.
The professor had turned from the bed to the table, where a glass, a spoon, and four or five phials, stood within easy reach of the dead man's hand. He held the spoon to his nostrils, and then examined the phials, holding them up to the light. In one, labelled "_Mag. Sol. Morph.,_" he seemed to find what he sought.
"Mr. Trubie," said he, turning round, with the open phial in his hand, "did your friend ever say anything to you, that indicated a disposition to suicide?"
The question roused the young man from his stupor, although it was a moment or two ere he seemed to comprehend its purport fully. "Never, sir!" he exclaimed, indignantly, a hot flush rising to his brow,--"Alec Arling would have scorned to do such a thing! He was neither a fool nor a coward, sir! Besides, there was no earthly reason why he should do it."
The professor shook his head. "He seems to have done it, nevertheless," said he, thoughtfully. "To be sure," he added, after a moment, "it is barely possible that he took it by mistake."
"Most likely, that is the real state of the case," remarked Roath, who was standing on the other side of the table, calmly and gravely observant of the scene.
In temperaments like Trubie's, the transition from grief to anger is often curiously direct; the one is the natural outlet of the other; and in this instance, the sound of Roath's voice seemed to afford the bereaved and horrified young man the object of indignation that he so sorely needed. Springing quickly forward, and clenching his fist, he confronted the speaker with a convulsive rage and excitement in strong contrast with Roath's grave composure.
"You know better!" he shouted. "It was neither a suicide nor a mistake. You killed him!"
Roath gave a violent start, and seemed about to speak, but his lips only trembled nervously. He was evidently confounded, almost bewildered, by the suddenness and fierceness of the accusation.
Trubie went on with scarce a moment's pause, and with, still hotter indignation, "You were last in his room--you acknowledge it. And you hated him."
Roath had regained his self-command,--which, to do him justice, he had but for an instant lost. "If you were not beside yourself with grief," said he, coldly, "there could be but one answer to such a charge as that. As it is--"
"'As it is,' I repeat it," interrupted Trubie, with bitter scorn. "I repeat it, and am ready to maintain it, always--anywhere--anyhow!"
Roath drew himself up. "I, too, am ready,"--he began, haughtily, but the professor interposed. "Mr. Roath," said he, with dignity, "I command you to be silent. Mr. Trubie,"--laying his hand on the shoulder of the agitated young man, and speaking in a tone of grave rebuke,--"much may be forgiven to the first excitement of sorrow and horror, but this is going too far. Such an accusation is not to be made lightly."
"Lightly!" repeated the frantic Trubie;--"he hated Alec, I tell you! He couldn't forgive him for rivalling him--aye, and beating him, too--everywhere; in scholarship, in popularity, in"--he hesitated for an instant,--"in love."
Roath's face grew dark; a frown traced a deep, vertical line between his brows; he set his teeth, and made a quick stride forward. But a dozen hands seized him, a dozen others laid hold of Trubie, and both were half forced, half led away to their rooms; while the faculty of the college, hastily called together, gathered around the corpse, to examine more minutely into the cause of death.
A coroner's jury was duly summoned. It examined the body, weighed the evidence, and being about equally divided in regard to the question of suicide, finally agreed upon "Accidental Death by Poison," as, upon the whole, the safer and less objectionable verdict. There seemed to be no good reason to suspect murder, nor any ground whatever for implicating Roath, or anybody else, as a perpetrator thereof.
Trubie, to be sure, persisted in his accusation; but it was with a vehemence and a dogmatism so unlike his wonted careless good nature, as to suggest the idea that his mind had been temporarily thrown off its balance by the shock of his friend's death. This idea gained color from the fact that all which he could offer, in support of so grave a charge, was the statement that he had long seen or suspected, in Roath a secret hatred of Arling, and a willingness to do him covert mischief. He had even mentioned the suspicion to his friend; but Arling--being of the most candid and generous, as well as unsuspecting temper, unable to conceive of any but an open, honorable enemy--had refused to entertain it for a moment. Trubie also solemnly affirmed that his passionate accusation of Roath, by the side of the newly-discovered corpse, was the involuntary result of an intuition so sudden, so clear, and so powerful, that, though little given to look for supernatural agencies in human affairs, he could not rid himself of the conviction that it was the direct inspiration of his dead friend. But it may readily be imagined how much weight a statement of this sort was likely to have with men of plain minds and sturdy understanding, searching among the external phenomena of the event for grounds upon which to base a reasonable verdict.